


Elementary Magic

by Couldbeamidget



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aglionby Academy, Battle of Wits, Crossover, Cultural Differences, F/M, Fun with matchy-matchy (not) slang, Lines of power and what they can do if you ask nicely, Lots of resolved sexual tension, M/M, Of course there's magic - don't be obtuse, One bat-shit crazy knife-wielding illegitimate princess, Resolved Sexual Tension, Road Trips, Royalty, Swords of said dead Welsh kings, The Science of Deduction, There's more than one dead Welsh king, There's more than one magical forest, Time Travel, Yeah there's more than one dead Welsh king, tons of sexual tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2020-07-18 00:24:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19965691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Couldbeamidget/pseuds/Couldbeamidget
Summary: ***ON HIATUS***This is a crossover between The Raven Cycle and BBC Sherlock Holmes. If you dare forge ahead you'll understand how amazing  alike these characters are.Here, the Gangsey are still third-year students. I am so, so sorry, Ronan Lynch. John and Sherlock have elected to study as foreign exchange students at Aglionby Academy.Personalities and cultures clash. Fortunately, Blue Sargent, ever the tragically sensible creature (again, my apologies), bitch-slaps the boys into behaving. Her band of five Raven boys grows to seven.Seven is a powerful number. Seven has the strength to change fate. Seven might even have the strength to wake dead kings.





	1. Mibay I Should Have Stayed Home

**Author's Note:**

> These characters are not mine. They are the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, the BBC, and Maggie Steivater. 
> 
> Please give this monstrosity a chance, it will get better with each chapter (I hope).
> 
> I am American, and yet endeavour to write in British English. Be advised that I may royally bungle it up. Blame google (lol). Feel free to nicely correct me. Also, despite all logic, my brain decided that John should live in Scotland. Be prepared for even more awkward use of slang. You've been warned, dear readers, you've been warned!
> 
> *************
> 
> Fair warning: The first chapters of this story are strictly introductions and hints of each character. There are too many people with complicated story lines to possibly explain in a summary I'm hoping that this doesn't put people off as the characters are remarkably similar. Expect longer and "plottier" chapters once all the major players are introduced. Then, let the narrative roll!
> 
> *Having said that, here are links for more in-depth explanation of and the role each character plays in both works. 
> 
> I think that Arthur Conan Doyle's series about Sherlock Holmes is a relatively well-known. The BBC characters are based on his work, but updated to fit into our time frame. If you are interested in a detailed synopsis, here's a link. Feel free to skip past the characters besides John, Sherlock, and D.I. Gregory Lestrade. 
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Sherlock_characters
> 
> *For those of you unfamiliar with The Raven Cycle, this link offers a brief overview. Maggie Steifvater has delivered a magical series and I strongly encourage you to read it. It's categorized as young adult fiction, but in my opinion, her works speak to all ages. 
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Raven_Cycle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seventeen-year-old orphan John Watson has been "offered the chance of a life-time." At least, that's his uncle's opinion. It's an opportunity right enough, for the bastart to cast John off the farm.
> 
> As a result of his exemplary school performance, the teen has been sought out by an American independent secondary school, the prestigious Aglionby Academy. Founded in Henrietta, Virginia, it' 3,055.997 SI miles from Stornoway. Why they'd contacted him of all people remained a mystery, he a no-nothing orphan. 
> 
> Intrigued, but no fool, John did his research. Aglionby Academy ranked as one of the top boarding schools in the US. It was built by the rich for the sons of the rich, not penniless orphans like himself. In the end, though, it didn't matter where he laid his head, he'd never wash the dirt from his hands.

Flying was a fecking horrible method of transport, John decided. Until today, he'd no opinion one way or the other. The closest John Watson had been to an aeroplane was when contemplating their high altitude contrails. If people were meant to fly they've been born with a set of damned wings. Take-off had been so alarming his balls had sought shelter inside his groin. Now the boy sat fighting off panic and the overwhelming desire to puke. Uncle Greg, the mingy git, had booked John a seat in cattle class. Jammed between two minks nattering on about Brexit he suspected that they'd put off their morning wash. His seat was on up from the loo.

John mostly favoured wee places, especially fond of the caves in the Southern Hebrides.They seemed safe, somehow, and beautiful; keeping him hidden from the world at large. Now though, he felt as squashed as a canned sardine. John's mouth was as dry as the desert. The EasyJet Airbus A319 had initially seemed enormous, looming ominous on appallingly pint-sized tyres. At least, now he knew better.

He should have stayed home. Nae, foolish to think o' the sheep farm as anything other than a temporary resting place. He'd been sent awa' to Uncle's like he'd been sent awa' from coosin Paden's two years before? Lestrade, anither foolish thing, the surname odd for a man born and bred in Scotland. Lestrade was French, nae? What barking mad ancestor of the man's chose to breed sheep on fecking Harris? Och. Small wonder Lestrade wis a mean-minded glaikit bodie. 

This was stupid, all elbows bumping into elbows into fetid jumper-clad elbows. John despised being touched by other people. It invariably felt as if a wee bit of his person was stripped way. How much of John Watson would be left after a twenty-five hour, two transfer voyage? The concept sent shivers up his spine. The boy eyed the plane's escape hatch three rows up, irrationally tempted to beat feet. The fresh air'd be worth it for about all of three seconds before being pitched into the Atlantic. _Haud yer wheesht._ Never invite trooble when it fallowed him like a shadow, a best mukker. Nae, two hundred eighty innocent fowk falling to their deaths - a bit not good. Never invite trooble, his ainlie mukker. Sighing and slipping in his earbuds, John plunged instead into the world of Led Zeppelin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "mink" - someone who's skipped a few baths.
> 
> "glaikit bodie" - stupid idiot
> 
> "ainlie" - only
> 
> "mukker" - best friend


	2. Leaving London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An introduction to Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft, and their dearth of opinions about everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These first few chapters will be ridiculously short, as they are introductions of all the main characters. Once that's out of the way...the plot thickens, lol.

"Sherlock," his older brother scolded, "you're costing me a fortune in extra bag allowance. For Heaven's sake, Aglionby provides you with a uniform. Why ever bring the entirety of your wardrobe? Such vanity is unbecoming to a Holmes." Mycroft loomed in, three inches and eighty extra kilograms of mingebag.

"Shut it, Mycroft, it's not like you can't afford it. Steal it from my trust if it makes you happy, but only if it ceases your whining. It's certainly not like I'm afforded access to my own funds. I'd much prefer to pay my own way, thank you very much." Sherlock glared down the length of Heathrow Airport. "And why is it that you won't permit me access, dear brother, you supercilious long-winded arse?" 

"And your chemistry set!" Mycroft plowed over his brother's words as if he hadn't spoken. "Quite ridiculous of you, Sherlock. I've acceded to your wishes in this folly, leaving Winchester to pursue education at Aglionby. The schools are hardly comparable. Nevertheless, Aglionby maintains a perfectly adequate lab. We visited the site during the tour, do you recall? What more could you want, little brother, a lab assistant?"

"Isn't it obvious, Mycroft? I _want_ you to piss off. The equipment is vital for my experiments. All of the equipment, down to the very last beaker. How dare you assume I'd forgo my experiments because I'm switching continents?" Sherlock snorted, partially amused, but for the most part, highly annoyed. "Exactly what do imagine that there's to do in Henrietta besides my work, perhaps absorb their miserable culture?" Cerulean eyes narrowed in derision.

"Why you persist in wasting my time is a mystery. Gratuitous lines of inquiry are beneath you, _Big Brother_ \- don't be obtuse. It's boring. Furthermore, you've once again circumvented the issue of my trust." Sherlock turned his back to Mycroft, overtired of hearing his voice. "Go away. I'm not a child, however you may treat me. I'm capable of boarding on my own, thank you very much. Don't you have a government to overthrow?" 

The ginger-haired man huffed, straightening out his cuffs. His stormy blue eyes and disappearing jawline did little to intimidate Sherlock. His crooked, squashy nose lifted toward the ceiling, displaying his ever-present grimace. He'd lost the toss of the dice, when it came to genetics. And yet, the truth of his plainness was irrelevant. The hook of his nose and the sour cant of his lips provided him gravitas as a Member of Parliament. 

Mycroft Holmes's comportment and dress resembled that of a middle aged man, despite being twenty-four years old. Life and circumstance had ruthlessly stripped him of his childhood, and there was no going back - ever. His little brother may resent his endless interference, yet Mycroft considered minding his brother his main duty. Their parents's car wreck at his tender age of eighteen made the rest moot. There was nothing for it but to stay the course, at least until Sherlock was set to rights. The man anticipated that this would take years - possibly decades.

"Ah! Finally!" Sherlock crowed upon hearing the boarding announcement. "See you never, Mycroft, if I'm lucky. Try not to start any wars before I take off. You know what it does to the traffic."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mingebag - cheap asshole


	3. It's Only Transport

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes flight with a bit of back-history for good measure.

Bollocks, Sherlock wished he'd had enough foresight to take a hit before being strong-armed onto the plane. One last hit, yeah, just to quiet his brain, fend off boredom, and soothe his nerves. Sherlock felt justified after researching Virginia's penal code. The knowledge presented a staggering number of incentives for that one last hit to be in London.

Just one hit, to ease the torment of suffering through his brother's interminable nagging. Mycroft rather enjoyed belittling him, so he'd observed; like his mother enjoyed hard pruning the roses. One must cultivate interests to broaden one's horizons, pip pip, and all that. 

Saying that the boy craved cocaine was akin to saying that he craved oxygen, or water. Fuck his pompous git of a guardian, thought Sherlock, and why not? The man had earned contempt. Sherlock wasn't "lowering himself to the level of the masses" if his consumption wasn't a result of addiction? 

At any rate, Sherlock deemed himself proficient enough in chemistry to fend off any risk of his overdosing. He wasn't reckless, suicidal, nor an idiot. He sought out only superior products from highly dependable sources, suppliers who valued reputation over any recompense. 

Ah, lovely cocaine. If mixed to a precise seven-percent solution, the drug secured his focus, preserving mental equilibrium when his brainwork went decidedly wonky. An unfortunate turn of events, that, result of juggling too much data in one go. A potent stimulant, cocaine kept his mind unfettered during the deletion of superfluous data. Sherlock didn't give a fig about its base reputation, havingv few resources for coping as it was.

Yes, life would be grand - or at the very least - less difficult, if his brother kept his anal-retentive self out of Sherlock's exceedingly private personal life. Sick to death over Mycroft's incessant verbal diarrhoea, the boy ignored him. The wanker'd do better applying his mouth to rid the kitchen of those revolting jam pastries he fancied Their sugar stuck to Mycroft's lips, and littered the floor. The foul stuff clogged the tread of his trainers.

Stupid Mycroft. Stupid cold-hearted tit. For years he'd told Sherlock that he was thick and feeble-minded, as if age determined one's intelligence. Sheer rubbish, of course. They'd both tested in same IQ range plus of minus two points, so there was that. In addition, Mycroft was born with a face resembling a toad. His brother had no right, _no right_ to be so horrid. Sherlock yearned - to himself - that Mycroft cease treating him so harshly. He felt freakish enough as it was, no need to rub even more salt into his wounds.

The bloody bastard, holding the strings of his life. _One more year. One more year and I'll be free of him. I'll leave and I'll never look back. I'll not be his puppet a second longer._

Transferring to Aglionby had originally been Sherlock's idea. He'd live in an airless abattoir rather than be plagued by Mycroft's prying eyes and deductions. Henrietta, Virginia, in the States; seemed a deep enough hole to keep him hidden. 

The boy he stumbled across Aglionby Academy on Google after a tedious, thirty-four minute search. Following the links to the US felt like jumping into Alice's rabbit hole, but so be it. Going by posted images and its demographic data, it appeared a dusty, tasteless little town. Why the academy had been established there was unclear. Sherlock could care less about either, as long as Mycroft left him alone.


	4. The Barns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ronan Lynch and Adam Parrish, Virginia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adam Parrish is the product of an abusive, alcoholic father and a cold, unsympathetic mother. His father hurt him so badly that he permanently lost the hearing in one ear. Ronan Lynch rescued Adam from further assault that night by intervening to beat the shit out of the cretin.
> 
> Adam, stubborn arse that he is, refuses his friend's help. He's fiercely independent and proud. Long story short, Cabeswater was a magical forest that appeared smack dab on Henrietta's sleeping ley line. He sacrificed himself to Cabeswater to wake it up, offering the forest his "hands and his eyes." Adam manifested unique skills, changing from powerless boy to magician. Voice and caretaker to Cabeswater, he tapped into the ley line's power. 
> 
> Once Cabewater was gone (explanation to follow), Adam has been struggling to find meaning in his life. He and Ronan are boyfriends.
> 
> On to Ronan. Ronan inherited the ability from his father to bring objects - including people and magical forests - out of his dreams. He is known as a Greywaren. His father was murdered as a result of this ability and his desire to make money. Idiot. Ronan was scarred by this, not only by the loss but by the fact that he was the one who found the man's body.
> 
> Chainsaw is a raven that Ronan took out of his dreams as a fledgling. He raised her by hand, and she runs after him like a shadow.
> 
> Ronan and Adam combined their powers to help save their friend and fearless leader Gansey from certain death. Now that Cabeswater is gone, he too is floundering and uncertain of his future.

"Oof!" Adam huffed as Ronan plopped down hard on his stomach. They day was hot, nearly cloudless, and Adam stretched out under its heat like a cat. Ronan's muscled thighs lay on either side of him, heated steel against his prominent ribs. "Get off, you shithead! Trying to kill me?" He protested, but weakly. Adam would never deny his best friend anything.

The dreamer laughed, unrepetant. "If I wanted to kill you, Parrish, you'd be dead." He leaned down, his tongue licking sweat pooling in the well of Adam's collarbone. He loved Adam's collarbones, the sensitive skin of his neck. If fact, Ronan loved every bit of the magician. He'd eat him up, if he could.

Ronan wanted Adam to stay with him, always.

"Mmm..." 

The two had been lounging in the hay field since that morning, one of many running the scope of his childhood home. The property dubbed The Barns, was peppered with ramshackle outbuildings. The land itself felt wild, radiating a sense of otherness. It felt separate, tucked away in the rolling hills of rural Virginia.

Upon his eighteenth birthday Ronan took ownership of the farm, the one of three brothers who loved it. Initially Declan, executor and utter asshole, held the rights.

As far as Ronan was concerned, his older brother Declan could go fuck himself. He belonged to The Barns, and The Barns to him. Well, not entirely true. Matthew belonged, possibly more than Ronan did, forged through the power of a dream. The Barns acted as Ronan's refuge, oasis, and inner sanctum all at once. It was the only place where he truly felt at peace. The war against the demon had all but consumed him, and hungered to be free of the memories.

"Besides, you love it when I take charge," Ronan smirked,

The Greywaren smiled, all sharp teeth and black pointed eyebrows. This own flesh shining in the sun. August in Virginia, forever a sweltering hellhole of humidity. 

They'd been lounging between shafts of ripened hay, uncut and dripping with seeds. It was only natural for Adam to hunker down unseen, a lifeling habit. The teen's childhood had been less than ideal. "Gerroff! You smell like ass!" As if. His boyfriend treated defiance like an art form. 

"Fuck, you're delicious, Parrish. Suck it up. I want another taste of magician." This time Ronan's tongue swept up the length of Adam's neck, followed by a playful bite to his earlobe.

"Okay, that's it." With a graceful arching of his hips, Adam pushed up with his own thighs and reversed their positions. "Who likes it when the other takes charge? I think you're mistaking me for yourself." He grabbed Ronan's forearms and slammed them into the dirt. Damn, Ro was beautiful, from his powerhouse frame, his close-shaven head, to his surprisingly delicate features. The boy was an exercise of disparity.

"Parrrishhh..." the dreamer groaned, "Fucking hell, I think you just broke my ass." He wiggled it pathetically, crunching already broken stalks. "See? It's definitely busted. I can barely move. Please take a look and kiss it better...Magician?"

Abruptly Adam sat up, face twisted. He swung one leg over and got up. Ronan watched as he stomped further in to the field, expression matching his partner's. "Damn it!" he cursed, pounding his fists against his temples. Losing Cabeswater crushed all of them, but no-one suffered like Adam. Chainsaw swooped out of nowhere to caw inches away from his nose. "Yeah, I get it! No need to rub it in, turd!" 

He scrambled up to his feet, setting Chainsaw practically on her side. Incensed with her owner's carelessness, the raven flew about his head, screeching like a banshee. Ronan ignored her completely and charged at top speed after his friend. "Adam!"

Adam blended ghost-like into the landscape, and why wouldn't he? His dusky brown skin and matching hair color formed a natural camouflage. Adam Parrish, born into poverty and pain, made from dirt. He eluded Ronan instinctively, diving feet-first into a weed-infested culvert. The dreamer crashed into sight just as Adam ducked lower. He held his breath and squeezed shut his stormy blue eyes. _I'm not here. There's nothing here. Go away._ The landscape sighed and listened, clouding the dreamer's eyes from its magician. Even the bird. Even Chainsaw failed to see the figure squatting less than ten feet away. 

"Godammit!" Ronan swore, kicking up a maelstrom of dust and loosened grass. "Where'd you go, you fucking loser? Damn it, ADAM!"


	5. A Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The loss of Persephone left a pint-sized crater in Blue's heart. It also rid one bedroom of its occupant.
> 
> Blue's allergic to rich, privileged boys. They make her itch. So why has her mother invited one into their home?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blue Sargent is native to Henrietta and lives at 300 Fox Way. She and her mother Maura share their home and occupation with a rotating assortment of family. Needless to say, the house gets crowded.
> 
> Calla Lily Johnson and Persephone Poldma are her mother's closest friends and are the first real constant of Blue's life.
> 
> Persephone died in Blue's junior year while scrying when her soul traveled too far from her body.
> 
> The new resident psychic at 300 Fox Way is Gwynllian, the illegitimate lunatic daughter of King Owein Glyndwr. Yeah, that's right, the daughter of a 14th Century king. The Gangsey found her trapped alive in a coffin while looking for her father. Gwynllian instantly claimed Fox Way's attic space and is sadistically fond of singing badly.

"Tell me again, Maura, _why_ are we doing this? Inviting some strange kid - _Scottish kid_ \- into our very personal personal lives?"

Maura scowled at her phone's Google map. "Why did Blue think this would work?" She squinted at the quickly approaching route marker. The damn exit markers with too damn small numbers were useless. It was that, or she finally needed glasses.

"We already live like sardines, and you know it. Between you with your 'tea', and Blue with her yogurt, I scarcely have space to store pudding! Boys eat. They eat a lot. We don't have room for more food!" Calla Lily Johnson lived by two simple rules. One, trust Maura and Persephone with your life. Two, listen to your gut. Call it instinct or intuition, or a basic supernatural skill-set. Ability. Whatever. Call the feeling what you want, pay attention to the little voice in your head. In this particular case, though, Calla's gut kept its own counsel. She grumbled, giving her stomach an irritated poke. "Maura Sargent, I'm highly annoyed."

Maura took her eyes off the highway, risking life and limb to examine her friend. Recently developed frown lines marred formerly smooth chocolate brown skin. Could it be that they were finally growing old? She flashed back the notion of too-small road signs. A sinister tractor-trailor truck burped filthy black exhaust into the air. Blanching at the odor, Maura eyed the beast as it drifted closer to her bumper. Maura swore under her breath, one curse word for each thump on the steering wheel. Their car, being a tempestuous creature, ignored her efforts to sound the horn. Calla added a poetically eloquent string of foul language, the phrase bordering on Shakespeare-esque balladry. The behemoth swerved seemingly of its own volition and lumbered wearily into the slow lane.

"Holy hell!" Calla brayed. "That maniac was sending us a message, Maura. Don't you get all stubborn and ignore it! Turn around. Now. Tell Aglionby you've changed your mind. Say we've all got the plague and bedbugs...and our periods." Calla's strong, capable fingers rubbed her temples. This disaster was giving her a headache. Wincing, the psychic burped twice and theatrically patted her chest Fabulous, a case of indigestion now? Blue's mother pressed her lips into a fixed line. How very like Maura to hold firm, Calla's punishment for befriending a woman with principles."So, Maura, keeping quiet? You know something, I think, and you're keeping it a secret." 

"Oh, shush now," Maura snipped, finally goaded into responding. "Do you mind? I'm trying not to get us killed, thanks. And Google maps is...there's something wrong with these directions. And any way, Calla, can't a person be kind without needing an ulterior motive?" She could do without being given the third-degree. The sun's blinding light reflected off the vehicles surrounding them. Maura's pupils shrank into black pointed pinpricks, practically indistinguishable against her warm brown eyes. Calla's periodic bouts of bellyaching always gave her a headache. 

***********

The terminal was monstrously huge compared to the one he'd just come from, just one more sign of his impending doom. John groaned, overwhelmed. People teemed around him like a swarm of honeybees buzzing noisily into their phones. He didn't belong here, not at all. _What a dunderheid tae gree tae,_ John though, grimacing as he caught the mistake. This fecking wasn't going to work, this accepting the of poncy schule's - _School! School, not scule, bampot! -_ invitation. Treated as an outcast in his own hateful wee village he'd be daft to hope America'd be different. But, first things first. John'd be damned before his brogue took him down.

The boy had sat patiently, waiting for what seemed like an age. He gave up trying to suss out his hosts. He fumbled through his backpack and fished out Amy Gillet's "Speak English Like an American". He obviously needed more practice. Opening the worn paperback, John ignored his impromptu rowan twig placeholder to bury his nose into one page one. So engrossed was the young scholar in mouthing phrases under his breath that he utterly missed hearing his name called. Three times, and in increasing boisterous volume. It didn't help matters that John was deaf in one ear.


End file.
